


The Almost Death of John Watson

by bluebox_detective



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Community: sherlockbbc_fic, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-17
Updated: 2014-06-17
Packaged: 2018-02-05 00:25:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1798786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebox_detective/pseuds/bluebox_detective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While on a case, Sherlock and John find themselves in an unusual circumstance: John's life in the balance and at the mercy of Sherlock's poor CPR skills. Post-Reichenbach, non-Mary AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Almost Death of John Watson

John was sprinting down the pier, shouting like a madman.  
“He’s getting away, dammit!” he yelled. Sherlock tried to keep up, but John was in an adrenaline frenzy, driven insane by the desire to catch this particular killer.  
“John—wait—“ Sherlock gasped. “We’ll get him when he comes back round—“  
It was too late. The criminal had jumped straight off the end of the dock and was swimming to the shore on the other side of the lake; John dove in blindly after him.  
For a moment there was nothing, and Sherlock waited for John’s head to bob up. But it didn’t.  
So he became the third person to stupidly hurl himself into the water.  
Sherlock remembered now, John telling him he couldn’t swim, or at least not well. It had been so long ago, and Sherlock had just brushed it off.  
Now, as he heaved John’s still body from the dark abyss and up onto the pier, he reprimanded himself for it.  
“John!” he howled, tugging at the wet jumper that clung to the doctor’s cold body. “John, can you hear me?”  
He remembered Molly explaining CPR to a room full of police officers for a training exercise. Totally useless, he’d thought, I don’t go anywhere without a doctor.  
Which was still true, but unspeakably ironic.  
“Dammit!” Sherlock yelled, smashing a fist against one of the dock’s supports. He studied his splintered hand and forced himself to recall the details about CPR. He’d seen it done so many times, just never paid any attention.  
He carefully pulled back John’s shirt and placed his hands in the center of his chest, at the base of his breastbone.  
He almost laughed when he remembered what Molly had told him about how fast to do compressions. 100 beats per minute, she’d said. About the tempo of Stayin’ Alive.  
In that moment, John had nudged him, and under his breath said, “Mind if I get that?” To which Sherlock had replied, “You’ve got the rest of your life.” And they’d chuckled together.  
In his panic, as he started hard presses in the center of John’s chest, he sang the tune madly to himself, too flustered to bother with the lyrics. He did exactly 30 pushes, and John still wasn’t breathing.  
He rolled his eyes. “John Hamish Watson if you wanted to kiss me so bloody badly you could have just asked!” he shouted to nobody, before tipping back John’s head, pinching his nose, and breathing twice into his mouth.  
He immediately went back to compressions. 30 more. 2 more breaths. He was careful to create a seal around John’s mouth with his own, careful to check for expansion in John’s chest, careful to do everything properly.  
2 more rotations of that.  
All the while, he vaguely hummed Stayin’ Alive.  
He recalled that he was only supposed to do the rotation once more before calling emergency services. Which meant here was the point beyond return for most.  
Please, John, no, he pleaded to himself. God, no.  
And then John took one giant gulp of air, and his eyes opened.  
“Oh, my God,” Sherlock cried, still holding his dearest friend by the nose. He let go of John’s head and scooped him into his arms without a second thought. “John.”  
“I’m fine,” John muttered, spitting water all over the back of Sherlock’s coat. “Sherlock—I’m okay. I’m really fucking stupid, but I’m okay.”  
Sherlock buried his face into John’s neck, and whispered his name again and again. “John. God—John.”  
“Hey—“ John said soothingly, pulling away from Sherlock without letting go of his coat, and touching his face lightly. He coughed a few times and cleared his throat. “I’m fine, okay? Thank you. You—saved me. Thank you.”  
Tears stung at Sherlock’s eyes. He did his best to fight them back, but he lost control when he asked hoarsely, “Is this what it was like?”  
“What—what was like?”  
“When you—well, when you thought I was—“  
“Oh,” John said, still gripping Sherlock’s sleeve. “Um—yeah, I—“  
And then Sherlock said it. The three words he never thought he’d say to John. He’d locked them up so deep in his heart, and promised himself he would never allow himself to express them verbally. They were just too personal.  
“He’s my friend.”  
And before he could stop himself, John cupped Sherlock’s chin in his hand and pressed their lips together.  
Sherlock surprised both of them by kissing John back, hard. There on the dock, both of them sopping wet and teary-eyed, and both of them demanding the touch of the other without hesitation.  
The kiss didn’t last long, but they each relished it for every second. John kept his hand firmly against Sherlock’s jawline, and as he kissed he felt the warmth in Sherlock’s cheeks.  
Sherlock’s lean fingers immediately found their way to the back of John’s head, pulling him closer by his wet hair.  
“I swear to God, John,” Sherlock said when they separated. “If you ever do anything like that to me ever again—“  
“You’ll what? Disappear for two years and let me sink into a barely-survivable pit of depression?” John laughed. Sherlock didn’t.  
“I was actually going to say I’d let you die.” And with that, Sherlock stood and helped John to his feet. He wrapped his arm around John’s still-shaking shoulders and walked him carefully back up the dock, toward the safety of solid ground.


End file.
